And here, for the sake of completeness, is Whitworth's actually good poem from the earlier thread Maryann linked to:
Blood Ties
The Whitworth
First it's the ground-up glass. You wouldn't believe the trouble.
Pounding it down for days, shoving it under the crust.
Smack of his red, wet lips as he gulps it down at the double,
Ashes to flaming ashes, dust to perishing dust.
(That one's out of a book – Kev's a one for the reading.)
Tesco's Somerset Style Chicken-and-Mushroom Pie.
Accidental Death, see. Death from Internal Bleeding.
Why don't he die then? Jesus, why don't the bastard die
In the piss and puke of his sin (what no book actually said)?
Kev kneels on the stairs and prays, but he still isn't dead.
Kev has this duff idea then, crush his skull in the toilet.
Over the door a wire to a clock-weight stood on the flush.
Likewise the deadly mushroom, hours and hours we boil it
In a cocoa tin on a fire till the bugger's down to a mush.
We mix it with three big sugars, stir it up in his tea then.
He knows about that all right. Kev gets smashed in the face
For a snotnosed, evil toe-rag. Right. So it's down to me then.
Kev on the line to Jesus, sat in his own dark place
With her home-made damson jam, shelf upon shelf upon shelf.
'All that's left of her now, sis.' Shit! So I do it myself.
Pick my time for a Monday. Mondays he watches the footie
Boozing. It's always the same - six big tins of stout.
Sat flat out in the armchair watching the late night movie.
From his wet, red lips the ropes of spit come bobbling out.
Smashed his head in with a hammer, one from out of the cupboard,
Right where the skin shows pink, hard as ever I could,
That hammerhead goes in easy. Kev, he would sure've blubbered.
Me, I screw up my face and I smash him again. It's good.
The sucking, snuffling sound like when water runs out of a bath.
I grab his hand. 'Come on, Kev!' We run down the garden path,
Over the back wall and out into the water meadow,
Down there by the lake with a big moon shining clear.
'D'you do it?' he says. I nod. We're stood out there together.
'My hand's like ice,' I say. 'There's nothing more for us here.'
'D'you do right?' he says. I shake my head. 'I dunno, Kev.
But it's done. I done it. Oh Kev, don't you tell on me, please.
Hold me. I'm cold as ice. Where are we going to go, Kev?'
The jinking, winking moonlight dancing over the trees.
'Why d'you ask if I'd tell, sis? What sort of noise did he make?'
See Jesus walking, walking over the face of the lake.
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